Iris (Mike Bravo Ops 1)

“If they come while we’re switching the plates—”

“We’re done.”

Saint leans back. “I have nowhere to be. We should wait it out.”

It doesn’t take long for the tension inside me to build to intolerable levels. It doesn’t want to simmer down. It builds and grows, giving me that excess energy I’m known for having.

I grip the steering wheel tight until my knuckles turn white. The rumble of an engine and the shine of approaching headlights have us both freezing and holding our breaths. But as a white Ford Taurus appears, Saint sags in relief.

“I think we lost them,” Saint says.

“Confirmed,” Trav says in my ear. “I’ve got the car on CCTV. It looks like they followed you off the freeway but lost you right after that.”

“When should we start making our way back to you?” I ask.

“Wait them out. They’re still in the area.”

“Keep us posted.”

“Will do.”

We both click the earpieces to mute.

Even though I can relax, my hands don’t loosen on the wheel. Adrenaline doesn’t care the threat is over.

Saint’s hand covers mine. “Iris?”

I stare at his hand on mine. “You probably shouldn’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Touch me.”

“Uh, why?”

“Because I’m at peak adrenaline, and if we’re not going to be involved in a car chase, blow something up, or go base jump off this building, there’s only one other thing I like to do when I’m like this.”

The corners of Saint’s lips turn up, and then his blue eyes meet mine. “What’s that?”

“Something we promised wouldn’t happen again.”

But Saint doesn’t recoil. He doesn’t take his hand off mine. Instead, he reaches across the center console with his other one and places it on my thigh.

My pants tighten, and even though my sole focus should still be on any car that comes up that ramp, I can’t take my eyes off Saint.

His Captain America good looks do nothing to calm the buzzing in my veins. If anything, Saint’s presence only makes it stronger.

There are times I believe we can be friends and others where I’m fighting every urge to touch him in ways I shouldn’t.

And right now, there’s no way I can keep up the fight.

I don’t know who makes the first move, only that our mouths come together in a frantic mess of teeth and tongues.

We both know what we’re doing. We both know this is wrong.

But that’s not going to stop us.

Chapter Eighteen

Saint

The first time, we blamed it on ten years of pent-up sexual tension. This time, it’s chasing the thrill of coming down from an adrenaline spike. But if I’m completely honest, I’m taking this opportunity while I can because ever since I found his toy drawer, I haven’t stopped thinking about this. Of having his lips on mine again, my mouth on his cock, or the way he tasted when he came down my throat.

Iris finally lets go of the steering wheel but only to lean across the car to cup my face and keep my mouth on his.

I can’t get close enough.

I want to climb into his lap, but that’s not going to happen in the front seat.

Iris has the same idea because the next thing I know, he’s breaking away from me and climbing into the back. Though, somewhat unsuccessfully. His foot gets caught under the gearshift, and he trips, landing face-first onto the leather.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Ballet. What does it look like I’m fucking doing?” He sits up and rubs the side of his head.

“Like you’re trying to get away from me?”

“These seats recline.” He pops a lever and lays the chair back to about a forty-degree angle.

“I don’t want to know how you know that.”

He laughs. “Sleeping on the way home from a job. I’ve never crossed this line before with anyone on the team.”

“But you’re willing to with me?” For some reason, guilt hits me square in the chest.

Iris is risking a lot by being with me, and it’s selfish on both our parts, but deep down, I’ve always had this connection with the bad boy from basic training.

Even if my rational side is telling me that I might have a bit of hero worship going on with my savior, and that my emotions and lust tied to Iris are trauma induced, I can’t help wondering if there’s a reason he was the one who pulled me out of that desert.

“Let’s not do that again—analyze everything and rationalize this, because I don’t think it’s possible. There’s nothing rational about it.” Iris leans forward and grips my shirt.

He tugs, and I go willingly, climbing through the middle of the front seats.

The high from the car chase is starting to wear off, but it’s replaced with something even needier.

I’ve never known hunger like the way I crave Iris.

He lies back, and I straddle his hips. My head almost hits the roof, so I lean over him. He’s still only in board shorts from earlier, and as I gaze over his muscles, up to his face and dark hair falling over his forehead, the risk of our jobs, of our livelihoods—the only thing I have—is nowhere near the forefront of my mind.